


put out your hands and take these blossoms

by propinquitous



Series: i went to see his heart [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Bittersweet, Hopeful Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, but dear god it's wrapped up in so much fucking porn, truly sentimental nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-02 04:55:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18804130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Eliot reckons with his banishment and feelings for Q.But now he was with Quentin, in an old bed and breakfast in Vancouver and they had time, didn't they? They had time to acknowledge each other and the yearning that pulled them together, in whatever form it took. He settled his weight back against the headboard and said, as softly as he could, "What do you want, Quentin?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> self indulgence con 2k19 continues.
> 
> takes place circa 2.12, while eliot is in exile and they're in vancouver on their fanboy scavenger hunt.
> 
> an aside - eliot briefly experiences some anxiety and biphobic-type thoughts about quentin. they resolve it and move on, but if that isn't your bag, skip the section that starts with "When Quentin's hands snuck under his shirt" and ends with eliot talking about his dick, as he does.

"So I heard you're free from your contract," Quentin said. He sat in a worn armchair, legs drawn up to his chest. Looking at him in his boring black hoodie, Eliot felt an ease he hadn't felt in months.

"Oh yeah?" Eliot said. 

"Mm," Quentin smiled and tore at the hotel notepad, rolled the scrap between his fingers. "What are you going to do?"

"I thought I might go full late in life nun, you know. Get it annulled, devote myself to Christ," Eliot said. He crossed his legs and sat back against the headboard.

"That so?" 

"I've always thought I'd look good in a whimple."

"I don't doubt it."

"Can't you imagine it, my lovely curls hidden, tempting you."

Quentin laughed and flicked a ball of paper at Eliot. "You know, I can kinda see it."

"That your thing?" Eliot leaned forward and braced his chin on his hand, smiling.

"Your curls? Maybe," Quentin shrugged.

Eliot warmed. It had been so long since he'd been free to do this, to feel soft and easy with another person; he couldn't pass up the opportunity to be his old self, to flirt a little shamelessly. He smiled at Quentin.

"Is it weird to say that I missed you?" Quentin said after a beat.

"I don't think so. I'm very missable," Eliot said. 

He caught the split second when Quentin's face fell, when he could see the lines around his mouth deepen and the corners of his mouth quirk downward in the smallest frown. A bubble of guilt burst in Eliot and he took a sip of his drink to steady himself.

"I'm sorry," Eliot said.

Quentin tucked his hair back and gestured with an open palm. "Can we just, you know. Not pretend?" he said. Eliot looked at him and felt something inside him open up, like his ribs were cracking. Everything Quentin had been through while Eliot was in Fillory had only made him more brave, a little headstrong, even, and it made Eliot feel small in a way he wasn't used to.

At last Eliot said, "I've missed you, too."

Eliot had never been allowed to miss anyone. He had lived most of his life understanding that everyone he loved would be, by necessity, a passing phase. Attachments were pointless; a childhood rooted in fear and anger ensured his belief in that. He knocked back the rest of his drink and the _thump_ of the tumbler hitting the nightstand made Quentin start.

"I don't know what you want but I," Quentin cleared his throat and held Eliot's gaze.

Eliot's expression softened. In his young adulthood, home became an abstract thing, something other people had. He didn't miss it and he certainly did not miss the people in it. Even so, he had told Umber that Fillory was his home and meant it. Sometime in those first few months, he realized that he had always missed home but that there had simply never been a place to put the feeling down before; he had carried it with him, in all its weight, for years. Fillory had saved him when he wouldn't allow anyone else to help; it was his home, and he needed to get back and set things right. He owed it to himself as much as the kingdom.

But now he was with Quentin, in an old bed and breakfast in Vancouver and they had time, didn't they? They had time to acknowledge each other and the yearning that pulled them together, in whatever form it took. He settled his weight back against the headboard and said, as softly as he could, "What do you want, Quentin?"

Quentin sighed. "I just want you to know that I missed you, El, I've missed you so fucking much," he said. He took a deep breath and kept his eyes on Eliot, somehow riding the delicate line of obviously wanting without demanding. It broke Eliot's heart.

The truth was that banishment was forcing a reckoning with all the things he'd run away from, and he realized that he'd missed Q in a way he didn't know he could. It was a messy, tangled ache, to miss his home so much but to feel like part of his home was always carried outside of himself, held inexplicably in Quentin's hands like his crown had once been. The desire to soothe it was undeniable and he wanted so badly to reach out, to let himself rest beside Quentin.

He gave into the feeling.

"Q, come here," Eliot said, and opened his arms.

Quentin spared him only the briefest glance before he stood and took the few short steps to bed, laying down. Eliot bowed his head to kiss Quentin's hair and breathed in the comforting, familiar smell of him, and Quentin tucked himself against Eliot's side, draping an arm over his stomach.

They lay in relative silence for a few minutes. Eliot listened to Quentin's breathing as it slowed and wondered if Quentin was listening to his heartbeat, if he could hear it stuttering in its attempts to keep from thumping out of his chest. He wrapped his arms around Quentin's shoulders and tried to think of something to say, anything to keep Quentin here with him.

After a moment, he said, "That clock is so fucking _weird_ ," and laughed like he didn't want to cry. They had managed to sneak it past the front desk and Eliot had marveled at Quentin's ability to stumble through a scheme, awkwardly distracting the concierge while Eliot had levitated the ridiculous thing up the narrow stairs. 

Quentin laughed. "Yeah well, it fits the ambiance at least."

"This whole place does kind of have a haunted gingerbread house vibe," Eliot said. "Which one of us gets to be Gretel?"

Quentin shifted, impossibly closer. 

"I think I'm Gretel," Quentin said. "You'd look better in lederhosen."

Eliot chuckled and pressed his face back into Quentin's hair. He thought he could feel each muscle in his shoulders relax as they held onto each other, each ounce of secretly held tension drain away.

"I'm glad to be back here with you," Eliot said, "I want to get back to Fillory, I need to," he sighed, "but I'm glad to be here with you right now." Quentin's hair tickled his nose as he spoke and it reminded him, fleetingly, of waking up against his back. Quentin sighed against him and Eliot unconsciously twisted the back of his hair around his fingers.

Quentin looked up, then, and his face was so close that Eliot was struck dumb, in awe of the sheer tenderness in his expression. If he'd been standing, he would have staggered, been knocked flat. No one should have to bear this kind of love; it was too much, too heady and profound in its weight.

Eliot tried to ignore the voice that told him he didn't deserve it. In the absence of a way home, he wanted to allow himself the dangerous luxury of feeling loved.

"I," Quentin started and stopped speaking, made a few small noises in the back of his throat like the words were physically caught. His brow furrowed, just barely, and he seemed to give up on language as he pressed upward and kissed Eliot instead.

Eliot couldn't come up with any word to describe it but _soft_. His lips were giving and his touch was light and it made Eliot feel like a fragile thing. Quentin kissed in a way so undemanding that it made Eliot desperate to reciprocate, to temper his own desires to give him anything he might want. Eliot, though, had always been greedy.

He laid back and pulled Quentin on top of him, tugged at his shoulders and sides until he straddled Eliot's hips and had to lean over to reach his mouth. Eliot held Quentin's face in his hands and kissed him in the ways he knew best, laying lighter kisses around his face and under his jaw until Quentin got the message and took what Eliot wanted to give him, until he found his mouth and nipped at his lower lip and Eliot opened up underneath him. 

"Fuck, Q, please," Eliot moaned. He didn't know what he was asking for but something in him wanted to beg, wanted to be made to ask for everything. He was used to being in control and for once in his stupid, godforsaken life, he wanted to give it up; he wanted Quentin to carry him, to lose himself in Quentin's hands. He didn't have the words to say it, or maybe he was just afraid, so he said _Please, please, please_ into Quentin's mouth and gripped the backs of his thighs.

When Quentin's hands snuck under his shirt, it occurred to Eliot suddenly that he should stop him, slow him down. He had no idea about Quentin's history, didn't know if he'd been with any men aside from Eliot, and he felt a sharp pang of panic in his gut that maybe Quentin didn't really want him, that maybe he was using him to get what he couldn't get from other people because Eliot was here and Eliot wanted him. It wasn't a fear he usually harbored - he didn't care when straight boys wanted to get off with him if the feeling was mutual. But after everything, after being fucking _banished_ , he couldn't stand it. In that moment, Eliot wanted to be _wanted_ for himself, for whatever there was between the two of them.

Quentin must have noticed the tension or else Eliot had pulled back without realizing it.

"Are you okay?" Quentin asked, chasing Eliot's lips.

"Q," he said, as carefully as he could, "why are you here?"

"What?"

"Why are you _here_ ," Eliot said, voice flat, and squeezed the backs of his thighs where he held him.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Quentin said and his voice sounded so affronted, so genuinely nonplussed that Eliot regretted speaking at all but knew that he had to, knew that he needed to hear it for his own sanity, or else to validate every shitty thing he'd ever thought about himself.

"Q," Eliot swallowed around the sound. "I'm sorry, I. I just have to make sure, that you're," he said and couldn't finish the sentence. Guilt roiled in his stomach as Quentin pulled away to sit up.

"What do you want me to say, El?" he asked. He crossed his arms defensively across his chest before continuing, "That I'm straight, that I'm closeted and repressed, that I'm just, I don't know, experimenting? Which would you prefer? Because none of those things are true and they never have been." It occurred to Eliot that his voice should have been angry. Instead, he just sounded sad.

"No, it's not - fuck, Q, I don't know, I'm just, I just want you to be sure."

Quentin bent down to kiss his throat and ran his hands down Eliot's sides, and Eliot tried to will the knot in his stomach away. Quentin's hands were warm over his stomach and he dragged his blunt nails over his chest. He looked, Eliot thought, determined.

"Eliot, I'm here because I want to be," he said, one palm flat against Eliot's chest and the other soft at his hip. "Because you're my friend and I love you and whatever there is between us - I don't know, I'm not trying to hold you to anything. But I missed you and I'm trying to show you that, I'm trying to," his voice hitched and he paused, looking away. Eliot could see his cheek move where he bit it. When he turned back his eyes shone and Eliot reached up to stroke his face. He felt something like relief when Quentin leaned into the touch.

"I'm here because you're one my favorite people in the world, and I want to feel good, for once in my fucking life," he said finally, squeezing Eliot's hip. "I want you to feel good and I want you to feel it with _me_. Is that enough?"

Eliot nodded and couldn't speak. He knew he'd been wrong to ask, or at least wrong to be so afraid of trusting Quentin. But he knew that he owed it to Quentin to not make it worse or make him feel like he owed Eliot an apology; the simplest thing he could do, that carried the lowest risk of fucking everything up, was to lean up and kiss him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "That's enough, you're enough," he said and his voice failed. _Of course you are, you always have been,_ he thought.

"It's okay, I'm sorry," Quentin said, "I'm sorry - I don't," he dropped another kiss to Eliot's mouth.

"Q, no, don't, you don't have to explain yourself to me," Eliot said. "I shouldn't have, I'm sorry."

Quentin shook his head. "I get it, I think. But you're not some awakening for me or whatever it is you're afraid of," he said. Quentin touched his nose to Eliot's and Eliot's heart felt attached to a balloon all of a sudden, buoyed and light. He smiled and tilted his neck to kiss Quentin again.

"You were shockingly eager to get on my dick that one time," Eliot said and laughed even as he felt a tear slide down his temple.

"Yeah, well," Quentin shrugged. "It's a good dick." Eliot laughed into his mouth as he kissed him and pulled him close. It was a conscious decision to let go of his doubt and with it, his fear. He wanted to be enough for Quentin, too, and he thought he couldn't be, couldn't possibly live up to what he knew he could give him, if he was so afraid.

"So what are we doing, El?"

"I don't know, I don't - whatever you want, Q, just tell me."

"No, I want. I want you to tell me what you need for once."

Eliot sighed. "I can't, or I don't," he closed his eyes, "Look, normally I'd be, you know, very excited to be demanding." He pulled at Quentin's legs to encourage him back down.

Quentin huffed, pushed his face into the space between Eliot's neck and shoulder, kissed at the soft skin there. His stubble tickled and sent shivers down Eliot's body until he couldn't keep from squirming.

"You were saying I'd be surprised you weren't being demanding?"

Eliot tipped his head back and smiled. "I just want to be. I don't know." His desires were knotted up and he wanted to somehow be himself while showing Quentin that he'd changed, that he wasn't the person who helped fuck up things with Alice, that he'd grown.

Quentin looked down at him and smirked, not unkindly. 

"Let's just keep going," Quentin said, half a question, "is that - is that okay?" 

"Yeah, I can, I can definitely do that," Eliot said and lost his breath as Quentin's hands moved further up under his shirt.

"Off?" Quentin asked even as he withdrew to run his fingers along the line of buttons.

"Mhm."

Quentin drew back to pull his own shirt off before returning to Eliot's.

"You know, it'd be a lot easier if you wore t-shirts like most guys."

"You really want me to be like most guys, Q?"

"No," he said, laughing with every undone button, "not at all."

Then their shirts were gone and Eliot had one hand behind Quentin's neck and the other between their bodies, pulling at Q's fly. He kissed him deeply as he tugged at the zipper and then Quentin was pushing his hand away, laughing.

"I'm gonna make this easier on both of us and stand up," Quentin said.

Eliot watched as Quentin stripped as clumsily as ever and tossed his jeans over the chair he'd sat in before. Quentin stood there, then, in sagging boxer briefs, and Eliot felt a surge of affection that made his chest seize up.

"You're so fucking cute, Coldwater," Eliot said. He unbuttoned his own pants and slid them down. "Come back to bed."

With that, Quentin was on top of him, running one hand over Eliot's bicep and the other across his cheek. His skin was soft and warm and Eliot thought about the first time he'd been naked with another person, the thrill of the newness, the relief of finally being allowed to touch. This openness was novel, this freedom of being allowed to touch Q different than every other recent fumble in the dark. Holding Quentin, running his hands over the planes of his back and ribs, was a relief, a kind of homecoming he'd never expected.

"Why are these still on?" Eliot asked, pushing at the waistband of Quentin's boxers.

"Some of us actually wear underwear, El."

"Mm, sure," he said and slid them down. Quentin kicked them off and then he finally had him fully naked on top of him, all of his skin against Eliot.

Quentin kissed him briefly, too sweet, and sat back on his knees. Looking up at him, Eliot forgot about Fillory entirely; he wanted to stay there forever, underneath Quentin's body and hands. He could picture it so easily that it scared him - morning coffee and lazy Sunday morning fucks, Quentin's grip tight in clean cotton sheets. He ran his hands over Quentin's legs to soothe the longing, to remind himself that he had Quentin now and that it _mattered_.

Then Quentin took Eliot's cock in his hand and held it against his own and moved with such care that Eliot thought he might die, that this simple, gentle act might actually be the end, here with Quentin hot against him.

"Good?" Quentin said with a roll of his hips.

"Definitely," Eliot gasped, "don't stop." His breath hitched with every movement and it wasn't enough but it was still so much, somehow: the sight of Q naked on top of him, touching him, wet with precome. He held tight onto Quentin's hips to keep him moving and did his best to keep his eyes open, desperate to watch Quentin's face.

It was worth it, he thought, to see the way Quentin half smiled on the upstroke, the way his abdomen tensed and how he struggled to hold them together in his hand.

"Here, let me, I can," Eliot panted and pushed Quentin's hand away to take his place.

"Your stupid big hands have always been - _oh, fuck_ \- such a turn on."

Eliot would have blushed if he'd had the presence of mind to feel anything other than good, anything else but the mind numbing pleasure of being caught up in a rhythm with Quentin, the steady beat of waves against the shore.

Quentin bent over to kiss him and it was messy, the slick slide of their mouths less a kiss and more a desperate movement against one another. Eliot found himself unable to focus on anything then but the desire to get Quentin off, to think of anything other than how good he knew he could make Quentin feel.

After another moment, he felt Quentin starting to tense, panting hard against Eliot's cheek, and when he brushed his hair away from their faces he could see how the dim light from the nightstand cast Quentin's open mouth in soft relief.

It was impossible not to breathe Quentin in and Eliot held him close with his free hand, dragging his nails up his spine to tangle in his hair. When Quentin's breathing escalated into a whine, Eliot let go of his own cock to devote all of his attention to Q, to carry him through. He cast in the subtlest way he knew to slick his hand and dragged his thumb over the head, pulling back down with all the care he could until Quentin came hard, groaning into Eliot's neck as he made a mess of his belly and chest.

Eliot felt the press of Quentin's lips against his neck, then the warm gust of his sigh. He stroked Quentin's hair and kissed his temple.

"Feel good?"

Quentin only hummed before he withdrew to kiss Eliot. He pressed his hips down against Eliot's still hard cock and shuddered.

"If you don't want to be demanding," he said in between pressing kisses to Eliot's face, "do you want to beg?"

Eliot almost laughed in his face but for the bolt of arousal the question sent through him. "Who are you and what have you done with Quentin Coldwater?"

Quentin shrugged. "I'm just spitballing here," he said, and moved down, dragging his mouth across Eliot's chest and stomach as he went. He was languid in the aftermath, his movements loose and more sure than Eliot had ever seen from him. "I don't know what you like," he whispered against Eliot's skin. His voice had gone from teasing to earnest in the lightning quick way that only Quentin's could and it sent something molten through Eliot's center.

"I think I might like this Quentin," he sighed as Q bit down near his hip. He kept his hands still, resisting the urge to guide Quentin's mouth where he wanted it.

"You remember last time?" Quentin said. His warm breath ghosted over Eliot's thigh, close enough that Eliot couldn't help but think about his mouth, wet and wanting.

"Mhm, I remember."

"I didn't know what you wanted but I wanted to suck your dick so badly, I felt so stupid but I wanted it and I told you."

"I remember that, too," Eliot said, and he did, he remembered the way Quentin had pulled away from Margo to lean into his arms, to sink to his knees as he whispered _Please, I want, I want_. He remembered the eagerness, the halting confidence, the way he had pushed Eliot back until he sat on the bed and how Quentin lost himself so thoroughly that he had drooled down his hand. He remembered the way Quentin's cock was leaking when he stood, after, and how much he'd wanted him, then.

Quentin tapped a finger against Eliot's hip until he opened his eyes and looked down.

"Will you tell me what you want this time?"

"Fuck, Quentin, please," Eliot said and strained toward him.

"El, please, tell me."

"Your mouth, I want - fuck, please."

It must have been enough. Eliot was lost in the heat of it, the wet slide of Quentin's mouth. He moaned as Quentin moved and tried to take him to the root and couldn't stop himself from tangling his fingers in Quentin's hair when he couldn't, when he had to use his hand to keep Eliot steady. He ran his tongue along the underside and it was the best thing Eliot had felt that night, the slick pressure of it and the way that Quentin stopped at the end to tongue at his slit.

Eliot realized with a jolt that there was no way that Quentin's come hadn't gotten on him, that Quentin had to be licking his own come off of Eliot's cock. It punched a gasp out of him and he moved one hand to the back of Quentin's head, encouraging.

"Q, Quentin," he said and tried not to fuck too hard into his mouth.

Quentin pulled off just long enough to look up and smile. "Yeah?"

"Please don't stop, oh my God, please," Eliot gasped and he realized that he was falling apart, that Q had somehow turned him into the mess he was. Quentin took Eliot back in his mouth and hollowed his cheeks and it was too much, then, and Eliot thrust forward.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Eliot gasped, embarrassed, and slowed himself down. He ought to have more control over himself, he knew; he ordinarily brought way more finesse to the table, and he should have been better but this was Quentin, his Q, who had asked him to beg.

"El, no, I want - I want it, please," Quentin said and sunk back down onto Eliot's cock.

Eliot lost himself in the feeling. He closed his eyes and let himself sink under it, allowed himself to be weighed down by the comforting press of Quentin's mouth. He felt Quentin brace one hand against his hip and the hot feeling of Quentin's mouth was too much, too good, and it was almost too late when Eliot felt it cresting.

"Q, I'm gonna come, fuck," he said and tried to push Quentin away but he wouldn't move and he was determined, Eliot realized, to stay, to take what he wanted. It kicked something frantic up in Eliot's body and then he was coming down Quentin's throat, one hand clapped over his mouth to keep from shouting and the other tight in Quentin's hair. He thought he might black out but he was determined to see Quentin, to watch him swallow Eliot down.

"Oh my God, Quentin, Quentin," Eliot moaned and didn't stop chanting his name until he was out of breath.

A few thick moments passed as he softened and Quentin didn't pull away. He kept his mouth on Eliot, tongue still gently moving until Eliot squirmed and pushed him off, oversensitive. Quentin rested his cheek on Eliot's leg and looked up at Eliot, a small smile on his face as he dragged his nails through Eliot's pubic hair.

"You look so good like that," Eliot said and meant it. Quentin's hair stuck up where Eliot had pulled it and his lips were swollen and slick. Eliot brushed a thumb over his chin to wipe away saliva or come, he couldn't tell, and pushed his finger into Quentin's mouth. He didn't expect Quentin to react but his eyes fluttered closed and he sucked at the pad of his finger.

"Fuck," Eliot laughed. Quentin smiled like he'd pulled off a card trick and shimmied up to lay next to Eliot.

"Hey," he said, and pulled Eliot in for a kiss.

Eliot hummed into his mouth and pulled away. "One sec," he said and stood and walked to the bathroom. He returned with a damp washcloth and ran it over Quentin's sticky chest before wiping himself off, too exhausted to do anything but the bare minimum and too thrilled at the prospect of cuddling back up with Quentin to waste any time.

He settled back beside Quentin and reached out to draw him in.

"You know what," Quentin laughed and shook his head, "when I imagined this I never imagined it would be in a bed and breakfast in Vancouver, but this isn't half bad." He laughed again, his head lolling onto Eliot's shoulder.

"You _imagined_ this, huh?"

Quentin shrugged. "Like you haven't." Eliot said nothing but smiled, pressed a kiss to Quentin's temple, a place he realized he loved.

"I was thinking," Quentin said and paused. 

"Hm?" Eliot was drifting off but Quentin's nervous tone startled him awake.

"Instead of going back tomorrow, can we just. I don't know, it's stupid, but can we stay another day?"

Eliot's first instinct was to say no; they had too much to do, too much was at stake. But it had been so long, he thought, since he'd really been selfish, since he took any time to do only what he wanted. And he knew that right now, he wanted Quentin, wanted to stay here in this bed with Quentin's sex damp skin against him, to do something truly stupid and frivolous like order champagne for breakfast and lick strawberries off of Quentin's chest. Because what was the point, Eliot thought, of saving worlds and kingdoms if you couldn't stop sometimes to kiss your friend, if you couldn't take a day to make love in a bed and breakfast like normal people?

"You know what, fuck it. Let's do it," he said.

Quentin smiled so wide that Eliot couldn't stop himself from smiling too, so big that his face hurt. He kissed Quentin's cheek and pulled his leg over his own, held him as close as he could.

"And for the record, I fully plan on fucking you more tomorrow," Quentin said like it wasn't a kind of declaration. Eliot laughed but couldn't ignore the flutter it sent through his stomach or the way his cock twitched against Quentin's thigh.

"I think we can work something out," he said. Quentin sighed something like ascent and Eliot drifted off imagining all the things they might do, now that they had the time.


	2. Chapter 2

"Quentin?" Eliot said, sleep dazed. He heard Quentin's voice from the bathroom but couldn't make out the words so he laid back, collapsing into the pillows. He was warm, naked but still wrapped in the sheets. It had been so long since he'd been able to wake up slowly, to luxuriate, even, and he let himself play out flashes of the previous night while he waited for Quentin. He remembered the feeling of Q's weight on top of him, the warmth of his hands and mouth and he laughed to himself, a little dizzy with the memory.

Quentin emerged with a toothbrush in his hand and smiled, dumb mouth full of minty green foam. His hair was tied back and he wore only a pair of boxer briefs; he had the look of someone reinvigorated, excited to start the day with a run or something else equally unfathomable. It sent a pang of longing through Eliot, imagining waking up like this every morning - the casual intimacy of starting a day with someone had always been one of his weaknesses. He loved learning lovers' habits, loved to find the spaces in their routines where he might fit. He couldn't ignore the tug of desire he felt looking at Quentin, not just the desire to hold him but the desire to know him, the desire to be a part of his day. He wondered if Quentin would always wake up first or if he would sleep in sometimes, if Eliot would get the opportunity to wake up and see the lines of Quentin's face smoothed in sleep. He fought the urge to push the feeling down; if today was about indulgence, he thought, then he deserved to let his guard down.

Quentin made a gurgling sound that Eliot assumed was _Good morning_ and turned back to the bathroom. Eliot heard the clunk of the old tap turning on and back off again and then Quentin was in front of him, smiling.

"You've got a little -" Eliot started to say and stood, disentangling himself from the sheets and drawing close to him. "There," he said and wiped a spot of toothpaste from Quentin's chin. He couldn't resist dipping down to kiss him, just a peck at the corner of his mouth. He didn't know if he was allowed but he thought it was worth the risk, to test the boundaries they'd broken down the previous night. Quentin rewarded him by blushing and biting his lip.

"Thanks," Quentin said. He braced his hands on Eliot's bare chest and rocked forward onto his toes to kiss him. He pushed deeper than Eliot expected, his mouth sweet with artificial mint, and it set him back on his heels until Quentin pulled away.

"Go brush your teeth," he said.

"I haven't eaten yet," Eliot said, incredulous.

"How do you wait to brush your teeth? Who does that?" Quentin squinted up at him.

"Does your breakfast always taste like toothpaste?"

"No, I mean, I brush my teeth, then I shower, then I eat and by then the taste is - you know what, no, I'm not having this conversation. Go brush your teeth so I can kiss you, idiot."

"Oh, Q," Eliot said and held Quentin's face in his hands. He planted a kiss on Quentin's forehead. "Fine."

Eliot came back to Quentin sprawled out on the bed, thumbing through one of the Fillory books he always seemed to tote around.

"Here I am," Eliot said and laid down beside him. "Minty fresh."

Quentin set his book down and curled on his side to face Eliot, sidling close. Eliot's stomach tensed in anticipation.

"How's it going?" Quentin asked as his hand settled on Eliot's hip.

"You pulling a line on me, Coldwater?" Eliot said.

"I mean, you're the one naked in my bed." Quentin smiled, squeezing at the crest before sliding his hand back, running his fingers over Eliot's ass light and brief. Eliot shivered and reached out to stroke Quentin's cheek.

"Bold move," he said and it was too much, then, the way that Quentin's smile pushed his cheek firmly against his hand, how he could feel his eyes crinkle under this thumb. _Oh, fuck,_ Eliot thought at the swell of affection in his chest, at the undeniable need he had to kiss Quentin in that moment. He pulled Quentin in with an excitement that should have embarrassed him and when he smiled he realized Quentin was smiling too, their teeth clacking together just so. It made him feel giddy, lit up and relieved. He took the opportunity to bite at Quentin's lip, to pull it between his teeth just hard enough that Quentin gasped and dug his nails into the back of Eliot's leg. Every motion lit something small and bright in his body and he couldn't shake the overwhelming joy of it. He wanted to drown in the spinning eddy of Quentin's affection, let himself get dragged under until he forgot who he was and all that was left were Quentin's hands on his body and his lips against his skin, because he hadn't even had breakfast and he'd been bullied into brushing his teeth and it was all so that he could kiss Quentin, so he could pull him in close first thing in the morning like this was normal, something they did all the time.

The problem was that Quentin kissed like it _was_ normal. He touched Eliot with a kind of gentleness, a surety that pushed them forward until their bodies were flush. It had none of the hungry urgency from the night before; instead Quentin dragged his lips slowly over Eliot's, alternating between short close-mouthed kisses and deeper ones that made Eliot's toes curl. They kissed until the mint on Quentin's breath had softened to the faint aftertaste of fluoride, until Eliot couldn't feel anything but Quentin. It was too much, too easy and it made Eliot's heart thump insistently in his chest. 

"I think," Eliot finally said between kisses, "we need to get up, or we'll miss breakfast."

"Are you serious?" Quentin asked and he whined as he rolled onto his back.

"You're the one who wanted to have a nice day at the B&B, Q."

Quentin laughed and it reverberated through the mattress. "Can I at least see if they'll let me bring it up? I don't want you to get dressed."

"Mm, if you insist."

"K, great, I'll be back in um, a minute, hopefully." Quentin rose and leaned down to leave a peck on Eliot's cheek and then he was pulling on jeans and was gone, the room left silent but for the hum of the air conditioning.

Eliot let himself doze. He was still barely awake - Quentin's kisses had only made him more drowsy, more melted-butter soft in the bed. He half-dreamt of Fillory, of Idri and swordfights and the child he didn't know, and forgot about it when he woke to the sound the door clicking open.

"You know," Quentin started, balancing two plates on his arm, "as a kid I always assumed it was bed in breakfast, not bed and? Which makes no fucking sense but I guess in my head I always assumed they'd bring you breakfast in bed, which seems way better than sitting in a room with a bunch of strangers eating blood sausages or whatever."

"Blood sausages?" Eliot sat up and raised his eyebrows.

"I don't know, I mean, I just assume." He set the plates on the bed and Eliot felt an adolescent thrill at the arrangement; he had piled one plate high with waffles and the other with eggs and sausage, clearly meaning for them to share. It was always the small gestures, the faintest implications, that made Eliot's heart swell.

"Anyway," Quentin coughed. He stripped his clothes again to sit next to Eliot, like eating breakfast in bed in varying degrees of nudity was something people just did, that Eliot and Quentin in particular did together. "Waffles? We have a big day today," he said.

"Is that so?" Eliot asked distractedly. He'd forgotten how much he loved waffles, somehow, how had he forgotten? They were so crispy and buttery and holy shit these waffles, he was going to have to smuggle a waffle iron back into Fillory if he ever made it back because goddamnit, these _waffles_ -

"Yeah I mean, there's a really good bathtub in there, in case you didn't notice, and there's a whole other bed we haven't even touched," Quentin said.

"Quentin did you," Eliot started, suddenly very aware of what exactly Q was implying. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Did you plan a _menu_ for today? Is there a spreadsheet?"

"No," Quentin said around a mouthful of breakfast and his voice was just a little too insistent, too sharp.

"Q," Eliot said. He set down his fork to wait.

Quentin sighed and rolled his eyes. "I mean, I just thought a lot about the things I want to do with you and there are like, you know, a few bases I'd like to hit."

"A few _bases_?"

"Would you just, okay, listen, just shut up and eat your breakfast."

Eliot's cheeks hurt with the effort of restraining his smile. He let it lie and focused on finishing his breakfast. He was, in truth, not much of a breakfast person; he generally preferred waking up with a cigarette and eating sometime after noon. But here, in this liminal space they'd crafted, he found himself bizarrely hungry, like his body knew that he was out of his usual environment and wanted to force him into better habits while it had the chance. Some part of him also wanted to please Quentin, knew that it would make him happy to see Eliot eat well for once. So he cut his waffles into neat squares and tried not to laugh while Quentin used his hands to eat a waffle and sausage sandwich.

When they were done eating, Quentin leaned across the bed to kiss Eliot once. He left the taste of maple syrup on his lips.

"Shower?" Quentin asked as he cleared their plates.

"Is the shower first base?" Eliot said. He stood and stretched, hiding his smile in his shoulder.

"Shut up and go start the water," Quentin said.

The taps were the old kind, with hot and cold out of separate spouts. Neither seemed to have a clear definition of hot or cold, only pouring out tepid water regardless of how Eliot twisted each knob, and after a few minutes he crossed his fingers and drew a series of semicircles in the air until both taps ran a comfortable heat.

Once the shower was running, Eliot stepped in. He was relieved for it; frankly, his hair was a little crunchy at this point and his face was in clear need of a wash. He was rinsing the shampoo out when Quentin pulled back the curtain and stepped in.

"Fancy seeing you here," Quentin said, and turned to face the spray. He reached for the shampoo and Eliot plucked it from his fingers with a flourish.

"Can I?" he asked. Quentin turned and Eliot watched the water fall over his back, beaded and slipping like mercury. It made his throat dry and he leaned forward to mouth at the skin there and he felt like a desert animal, parched and wanting.

"Are you gonna wash my hair or just seduce me?"

"Well, the whole hair washing thing is part of the seduction, so," Eliot said and massaged his fingers into Quentin's scalp. Quentin hummed a little and leaned back into his touch. He tried to keep it steady, slow, scratching around Quentin's hairline and at his nape and after a few moments, he pushed him forward under the spray to rinse. When Eliot was satisfied, he ran his hands over his arms and drew kisses across the horizon of his shoulders and Eliot could see, then, that he was hard and it made him suck harder at Quentin's skin, the idea that all it took to get him going were these small touches.

Eliot moved his hands to Quentin's hips and squeezed. For a while, he kept his hold and went on kissing him, until Quentin's hips canted back and then he couldn't resist anymore, he drew one hand back to dip between Q's legs. Timidity had never been one of Eliot's strong suits, but he kept his touch light as he moved, grazing over Quentin's skin until he gently pressed at his hole and Quentin gasped.

"Okay?" Eliot asked. He pushed a little firmer against Quentin, laid a soft kiss to the base of his his skull. Obscurely, Eliot remembered that the vertebra there was the atlas and he thought about all the weight that Q carried, in his mind and in his heart and for so many people. He wanted to carry it for Quentin, to relieve him of his burdens, if only for a day; he wanted to be strong for him and let him rest, to teach him that he did not need to justify himself to the world. When Quentin tipped his head back to nod and rest on Eliot's shoulder, it felt like transference.

He tapped out a spell with his free hand and when Quentin sighed and squeezed Eliot's hand at his hip, he took it as permission. He dipped one finger into Quentin, then, and breathed against his skin. This was the most intimate thing he could think of, to be allowed to touch Quentin like this, the heat around his fingers incomparable to anything else.

"That feels, fuck, it feels really good, El," Quentin said. He turned his head and parted his lips and Eliot realized he was asking for a kiss, something he was all too happy to oblige as he kept up his gentle work.

Eliot pushed in a little further, reveling in the soft feeling of Quentin and what it meant to be inside another person, inside Quentin, and moved to wrap his arm around Quentin's chest to hold him close. He teased at Quentin's rim with a second finger and held his palm tight against his breastbone, a steadying counterpressure to the weight of his heaving chest and when Quentin went a little slack at one particular movement, he slid a second finger in and pressed deep. Then he was moving, sliding in and out of Quentin's body. He kept his pressure slow and steady, felt the give of him, while Quentin moaned, shaking apart in his hands.

Their names were single syllables in these moments. Quentin breathed a steady stream of _El, El, El_ and Eliot couldn't say anything that wasn't _Q, fuck, you feel,_ and it made Eliot feel boiled down, as if he might evaporate entirely if Quentin kept making all of those noises, if he fucked back any harder on his fingers.

Eliot felt Quentin shifting to spread his legs and the room it gave him to move sent shivers down his body. Slowly, he slid his hand down Quentin's chest, over his belly until he was hovering near his cock. Quentin's eyes were open, then, and Eliot smiled and tucked his face into his neck.

"If you come now, are you going to be able to come again when I fuck you?" Eliot said against Quentin's ear. "I still want to eat you out and fuck you, you know that, right? Will you let me?" He felt a thrill as he said it, a hot spike in his solar plexus. 

Quentin nodded. "Yeah, of course El," he gasped and Eliot withdrew his fingers, pushing back in a little rough to make Quentin gasp. "Of course." Something in that language, like it was obvious, like he should just know that of course, of course Quentin wanted Eliot in all the ways Eliot wanted Quentin, there had never been any question, set his skin burning. The water beat down on their heads and he sunk his fingers into Quentin again and again and he couldn't help imaging how good it would be to fuck him, to open him up even more on his tongue.

"Fuck, okay, okay," he said and finally wrapped his hand around Quentin's cock. Quentin made a sound, then, somewhere between a yell and a sob and a gasp and somehow all of those at once, and it was only a few strokes before he was coming, Eliot still holding him up by the chest. He quaked and sucked in harsh breaths and Eliot held him as best he could, withdrawing his fingers and rinsing them under the spray so he could embrace Quentin entirely, bury his face in his neck as Quentin caught his breath.

"Is it okay if I," Eliot asked without entirely knowing what he was asking and Quentin nodded without knowing either, always trusting. His cock was achingly hard and he hitched up Quentin's hips, sending him onto his toes and helping him to brace his arm against the wall so that he could slide between his thighs.

Quentin laughed something hysterical. "Fuck, El," he said and kept laughing - not amused, Eliot thought, just startled, a little caught off guard but happy.

"Yeah? Is that - are you okay?"

"Mhm, yeah, I'm fine, I'm good," he paused to laugh again, "I don't think I can hold this for long but fuck, you feel good like that."

Eliot smiled and stayed silent as he started to move. Quentin's thighs were firm and wet and it wasn't quite enough, overwhelming but like standing on an edge and not being able to jump off, not quite. Then Quentin flexed and it was suddenly so much, too tight and hot for words. Eliot moved and after everything it wasn't long before he felt himself drawing close.

"Oh God, Q," Eliot said and it was too much, Quentin's breathy laugh and the feeling of his skin and the muscles moving underneath. He came with a long groan into Quentin's back as Quentin fell back against him, flat footed at last.

Then he was laughing too, gone giddy and brain-meltingly stupid against Quentin as he leaned back to kiss him. Their lips barely met for their open-mouthed smiles and laughter and a moment passed when Eliot thought he might cry from the sheer lightness of it all.

"Hey, come here, kiss me like a normal person," Eliot said as he spun Quentin back around to face him. They stood under the shower for a few minutes, Quentin pressed against Eliot's chest, floating down off of their highs together. Eliot thought that he had never felt this kind of peace or that if he had, it certainly hadn't been after a clumsy fuck in the shower. He felt full to the brim of something bright and churning and _warm_ and he realized that it was distilled love, all the things he felt for Quentin concentrated into this single moment.

It was strange to feel so in love and to know that it held a certain impermanence. He wanted to articulate what Quentin meant to him but couldn't, because he was his friend and he loved him and sometimes they fucked but it was also something else, something that allowed them to spend a whole day together naked and kiss one another unselfconsciously. It made Eliot love him more, to know that it could be this easy. It also made him ache in a way he hated, to know that things would likely never be this easy because nothing ever was. For once, though, he wanted to ignore his pain instead of recklessly indulging it, to favor joy in its place; he wanted to take Quentin back to bed and turn him on his belly and break him into tiny pieces with his mouth, his tongue, and to make him feel good while he had him, no matter what came after.

Water droplets still covered parts of Quentin's skin as they stumbled to bed and Eliot could taste the faint lavender of the hotel soap and something else, the clean tang of his skin and some aftershave he didn't recognize, that hadn't quite washed away. He ran his hands up Quentin's arms to hold his face and kiss him and felt an inexorable weakness in his limbs when one of Quentin's hands reached up to tangle in his. The motion bared Quentin's chest in an especially vulnerable way and, absurdly, made Eliot want to curl around him until no one else could see him, until Eliot formed a protective layer between him and the world.

When they finally landed on the bed, Quentin was breathless underneath him and Eliot forced himself to pull away, to look down at Quentin. What he saw made his heart stutter. Quentin's expression was something unbearably soft, his eyes open and honest like they always were but somehow moreso, like he'd never really seen Eliot before and yet knew him anyway, knew every broken part and how he might hold him together.

"Hey," Eliot said gently, pushing Quentin's wet hair back from his face.

"Hey," Quentin said and smiled. He pinched lightly at Eliot's waist where he held him and Eliot felt ashamed of the sudden, petty voice at the back of his head whispering, _Me, me, pick_ me _, I want it to be me, I want to be your person, me, no one else._ Eliot had always thought of himself as selfish, but the reality was that he would never demand that of Quentin and it killed him, a little, to know it, because he had understood since he was a child that he would live his whole life as a series of losses and he desperately wanted to break the habit. At his core was simply the fear that Quentin didn't love him in quite the same way as he loved Quentin; it was the kind of fear that had always lived in him and felt confirmed at every turn, buttressed by the tragedy of his narrative as he imagined it. He wanted to be better. He wanted to live on his own terms.

"I -" Eliot's words caught in his throat. He shook his head and smiled down at Quentin and felt alarmingly helpless, like Quentin held his naked heart in his hands. Quentin moved to cradle Eliot's cheek in one palm. 

"Yeah," Quentin said, "me too." 

Eliot felt the tightness in his chest and throat that warned he might actually, really cry and bent down to kiss Quentin instead. Blessedly, distractingly, it set the heat burning between them again and he moved his hips until Quentin spread his legs to give him room between them. It gave him the opportunity to shift down, leaving a trail of wet kisses down his stomach.

"Remember what I said about eating you out?"

Quentin shivered and looked down. He nodded once.

"Want me to?"

"Yeah, fuck - yeah."

Eliot sat back to give him room to roll over before he ran his hands under his thighs and pulled him up, forcing his knees under him.

"You good?" Eliot asked. Quentin nodded; he was braced on his forearms and Eliot thought with a shudder that he'd have him face down, drooling onto the pillow, by the end. 

Eliot dragged his hands up the backs of Quentin's thighs until he reached his ass, drawing him apart and open with his thumbs. Above him, Quentin gasped and Eliot allowed himself a moment to look, to run his fingertips over the tender skin. Then he pressed the flat of his tongue against him and Quentin let out a single, long moan that made Eliot smile with self-satisfaction. He licked him again and rubbed circles with his fingers and finally pressed entirely against him, running his tongue in long strokes over his hole.

"God, what the fuck, El, that feels, that feels _so good_ ," Quentin said. He was pressing back against Eliot's mouth now, letting little _ohs_ and _ahs_ drop from his lips with every movement. For his part, Eliot kept up his pace, moving his tongue alternately in tight circles and broad licks. He inched one thumb inward until he could press the tip into Quentin and lick around it and then Eliot felt him finally collapse forward.

He paused to say, "All right up there?"

Quentin groaned something vaguely affirmative and Eliot smiled. He could see that Quentin was hard again, his cock hanging heavy, and he felt a bolt of excitement. 

"Don't come yet," he said, pressing his thumb in a little further.

"Shut up," Quentin said. "You're not that good." 

Eliot scoffed and sank his thumb in to the knuckle.

"Fucking, fuck," Quentin said into the pillow and Eliot laughed, running his tongue alongside his thumb. He thrust his thumb a little and kissed at his hole and it was consuming, the taste and the heady scent of him, the way Quentin pressed against him like his tongue and thumb were as good as his cock. He felt drunk with the power of it, to know that he could make Quentin feel like this. Yet he was powerless to resist pressing in as far as he could, to hold back at all.

Then Quentin's hand was swatting at his hair and he was breathing heavily. "Stop, I can't, please," he said, and fell to his belly, panting.

"Are you gonna make it?" Eliot asked as he snaked back up his body. He wiped his mouth with the back of hand and settled on top of him like an oversized turtle shell.

Quentin responded with a quick thrust of his hips, pressing his ass against Eliot's cock.

"Okay," he laughed, soothing his hands over Quentin's arms. "Are you done, do you want to stop?" He kissed the back of his head and reached under Quentin's body to tangle one hand with his.

Quentin opened his eyes and craned his neck to look back at Eliot. "No, I think, I mean, I want to feel you, I'm not - I don't want to stop."

"Will you do me a favor and tell me a little more precisely what you want?" Eliot squeezed his hand.

"Can we fuck, please? I want - I want you to fuck me, in particular, if that's. Something you're into," he breathed against the pillow. Eliot inhaled sharply.

"Yeah I can - we can do that."

Eliot pushed himself up until he was braced back on his knees, straddling Quentin. "Just hang on a second, okay, honey?"

A wave of anxiety overcame him but if Q noticed or minded the endearment, he said nothing, so Eliot settled into his work. He traced protective spells over Quentin's back, his ass, reaching underneath him to graze his cock with magic. He repeated the motions on himself, just as a precaution, just to be sure.

"What is that?" Quentin said, peering over his shoulder.

"Magic condoms?" Eliot said lamely and Quentin snorted into his pillow. "Should've done it earlier I guess, but." 

"Thank you," Quentin said, his voice discomfitingly sincere. Eliot shook off the feeling and returned his hands to Quentin's ass, kneading for a minute before tapping a final spell. Quentin exhaled as it took hold and wiggled his hips in a way that Eliot found cute, shamefully so.

"Are you okay like this?" Eliot asked, hitching Quentin's hips up.

"For now," Quentin said and the promise of more, of later, made Eliot's hands shake momentarily. The feverish energy from before was tempered now, melted down a little softer. He stood up on his knees and spread Quentin open with one hand, holding his cock in the other. 

"Okay," Eliot breathed, "okay?" He brushed the head of his cock over Quentin's hole, asking in the easiest way he knew. Quentin sighed _Yes_ and Eliot started the slow push in. He marveled at the give of Quentin's body around him, pulling out an inch before pressing in another two. Quentin took steady breaths beneath him and he knew there was no way it didn't hurt, at least a little, and he did his best to go slowly. None of it mattered if Quentin didn't feel good.

Eliot ran a hand down Quentin's spine, came to rest at the small of his back and rub small circles. "Hey, Q, are you all right?"

"Yeah," Quentin gasped, "it's just, you're big, you know that, I just need a minute." Eliot stilled until he continued, "Don't stop though, please, I wanna feel you, I need -" and was cut short by another brief press inside of him.

"We have all the time in the world, honey, it's okay, take your time," Eliot said and for once it was true; they could take their time. There was no rush in this place, the mid-afternoon sun casting coins of light over their bodies and lending a languid air to everything, heat soaking into their skin. Quentin moaned and stilled and Eliot said, "Here, push back on me instead." He held Quentin's hips to guide him but didn't move, instead watching, transfixed as Quentin took him. "You're doing so well, Q, that's it." The amount of restraint Eliot exercised to keep from moving surprised even himself and he did his best to focus on his breathing, to calm Quentin's skin with his hands.

When Quentin was flush against him he finally exhaled. He stayed seated for a moment, unmoving as Quentin breathed through it, face smothered in the pillow.

"I'm gonna - is it okay if I move?" Eliot asked after a moment.

"Yeah, I think so."

He held Quentin open and pulled out and let out another long breath at the first thrust. He repeated the motion and Quentin made a sound like a yell, something animalistic and loud. He fell to the bed and Eliot pressed his back to his chest and moved, a little harder, a little deeper, until Quentin was pressing back against him. Quentin's hands were tight in the sheets and when he turned his face and Eliot could see his mouth curved up in half a smile, he pulled as far out as he could and pressed into Quentin in one long stroke that made Quentin whine and smile more fully, even as his eyes stayed shut.

Eliot reached down to brush his hair away. "Good?" he asked, punctuating the question with another thrust.

"Uh huh, yeah, I'm - fucking, God, yeah," Quentin said, half a moan. Eliot craned his neck to bite at Quentin's earlobe, sucking it between his teeth as he moved. The skin of Quentin's hip was soft beneath his hand and it spurred him forward, fucking into Quentin with as much care as he could. It was overwhelming, Quentin's body underneath him like this, taking him in. Wildly, he thought about how close they were, the strangeness of it, of being inside his body and how good it felt. He was struck by the need to see Quentin's whole face, to watch every expression, to see exactly what he did to him.

"Here, hold on, let me," Eliot said and regrettably pulled out to to turn him over. Quentin went like a rag doll. Eliot spared a moment to look him over before he hooked an arm under his knee and pressed back in, watching rapt as Quentin opened up to take him. He wrapped a hand around Quentin's cock and stroked him, sent his hips bucking a little wild up to meet him.

"Fuck, Eliot, oh my God," he said and reached down to lay his hand over Eliot's. The intimacy of it, the tandem movements and the way it felt to touch Quentin in so many ways, it almost broke Eliot entirely.

"You feel so good, fuck, Quentin, you're so good, I can't - you don't even know."

"Please keep talking, I want - your voice, it's," Quentin said and laughed, a little breathless.

"Oh yeah?" Eliot smiled.

"El, fuck, _please_."

"What do you want, sweetheart? You want me to tell you how good you are?" He kept his eyes on Quentin as he spoke. "How you're only mine right now, how amazing it is that I get you like this?" he said and felt it down to his core, knew that it was true, that he was lucky and that he wanted to keep Quentin close, selfishly wrapped up in him. 

"You're so good, honey, you're the best one, nobody else gets this but us." Eliot felt himself babbling, careening off the edge of a little stupid and he couldn't stop himself, couldn't quell the greedy impulse. "Because you are, it is, you're, fuck, you're perfect." He tightened his grip on Quentin's cock and pressed his thumb against the underside until Quentin tipped his head back and came with a groan, making a mess of his belly and Eliot's hand.

Eliot couldn't hold on after that. He leaned down and moved both hands to grab at Quentin's thighs and pull them around his waist before falling to his elbows. "Oh, Q, I mean it - you're perfect," he said, pressing kisses to his face, "You're so good, you're my, _fuck_." His words didn't make any sense and he was unaware of anything but the feeling of being in Quentin, of the salt of his skin, until he finally opened his eyes and Quentin was looking at him, eyes shining like there might be tears, and Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin's and came, crying out against him.

Eliot kissed his neck and rolled away, left his hand on Quentin's chest. Distantly, he felt embarrassed of everything he'd said, like he'd admitted something too deep to ever really articulate. For now, though, he didn't care. It didn't matter, not with Quentin catching his breath next to him on the bed.

"Was that like - home base, you think?" Eliot said, sidling back up to lick and nip at Quentin's shoulder.

"You're the worst," Quentin said and laughed. He turned his head to kiss Eliot and they were melting against one another, skin damp and warm on top of the sheets. Eliot pulled his fingers through Quentin's hair and watched, a little dumbstruck, as the light filtered through.

"Actually," Quentin said, "home base is the bath. You wanna go run it since you're so enthusiastic about this whole metaphor?"

\-- 

When the water was warm and the bath was full, Eliot watched Quentin step in and settle against the edge. Eliot briefly considered arguing but the tub was reasonably big and besides, sometimes he wanted to feel a little smaller than he was, to be the one that got wrapped up. So he dipped his toes into the water and sat down and leaned back until he was pressed against Quentin's chest and his knees were just a little awkwardly crooked. Still, it was nice to be the little spoon for once, and he slid down until his head rested against Quentin's chest and when Quentin pressed his mouth to his cheek, hardly a kiss, he melted into it.

"So what now?" Quentin said into his hair. Eliot didn't say anything for a long moment.

"I have to get back to Fillory, I don't know how yet but I have to find a way."

Privately, he thought there was no going back from this, not for him, not really. But they would carry on. Eliot would go back to being king and they would go back to being friends and nothing would change because, he thought, this was what they had been since the beginning. And what was the difference, really, between romance and a close friend that you slept with sometimes? He thought it even as he knew that he loved Quentin but was too afraid, after everything that had happened and everything that might still come, to let them be anything more than friends who had loving sex in bed and breakfasts and went back to their lives afterward. 

He felt Quentin nod behind him. "I understand," he said, and the statement held a crushing weight.

Eliot's guilt was bottomless. He was skirting around the question he thought Quentin wanted to ask and when he felt him inhale, readying to speak, his stomach dropped in panic, at the dread of Quentin asking, _So us, what are we, what are we doing._ But Q, as ever, surprised him.

"El, I just. I want you to know that I'm so impressed by you, really, I am every day and I. I understand why things are, you know, the way they are."

Eliot felt unsteady, like he might tip over even though he was hardly upright; he tried to speak but found himself without words. Nothing about this conversation was going the way he expected and he felt like he'd taken a step only to realize he was already at the top of the staircase.

"I'm just saying that the sacrifice you made to take the crown, you didn't use it as a, I don't know, a launching point to throw yourself off the cliff; you made a decision and you became better for it. And I mean it - don't argue with me on this one, please. You've owned it in every way and you're so much braver than you've ever given yourself credit for, and. It's," Quentin finally had to stop for a breath and Eliot felt his deep inhale against his back. "You're an amazing person, Eliot. I'm lucky to have you in my life, I really, really am." He pressed a kiss to his cheek and squeezed him with every limb, his thighs tight around Eliot's and his arms firm across his chest. Even though Eliot could feel the longing radiating off of Quentin in waves, reaching out to his own, he was indescribably grateful for everything Q hadn't said.

"Quentin, I," Eliot laughed quietly, helpless. He wanted to tell Quentin thank you, that he loved him, that he had never met someone as honest and good as him but he couldn't, too overcome by the opaque earnestness with which Quentin spoke. Above all else, he wanted to tell him how desperately he hoped for a future where they had time to love each other. The hope burned brighter than he wanted, a fire he hadn't lit, but he wanted so badly to be the end to Quentin's story. Maybe, he wanted to say, just maybe, there was a world or a timeline that would draw them together, not right now but one day, eventually. It killed him to hope but it was impossible not to, not when Quentin held him with a kind of reverence, not when everything about Quentin's brave and giving nature pulled Eliot toward him. He hoped that when the time came, if it did, that he would be strong enough to accept it.

For now, though. There wasn't room in their complicated, tangled up lives for one another, not right now, not in the way they each needed. Eliot tried to think of the last few days as a snow globe, something precious and fragile that they would keep tucked away most of the time. They couldn't undo the feelings they'd grown together in that short time - tender saplings that they'd brought along with them and nurtured into something bigger, a garden of herbs and flowers. But the garden didn't exist outside of this limited context, he thought, and it would have to stay in its snow globe come tomorrow.

He sighed and resolved to let himself live in this moment for as long as he could. Quentin was _here_ and Quentin loved him and that had to be enough because it was, it always would be. "Thank you, Q," he said and kissed his forearm where it lay across his chest.

"Anytime, honey," Quentin said and Eliot could feel his smiling cheeks as he pressed his face against Eliot's neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what started as a very silly, self-indulgent bit of porn very rapidly morphed into this monster, so thanks for sticking through it. it's worth including this bit from season two of fleabag, because i thought about it a lot while writing; it's the speech that the priest gives at the end:
> 
> _Love is awful, it's awful. It's painful, it's frightening. Makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself! Distance yourself from the other people in your life. Makes you selfish, makes you creepy! Makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel! Makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It's all any of us want and it's hell when we get there. So no wonder it's something we don't want to do on our own._
> 
> _I was taught if we were born with love, then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot: when it feels right, it's easy. But I'm not sure that's true. It takes strength to know what's right. And love isn't something weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope._


End file.
